


Small Pleasures

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Sex, Deacon likes dressing up and getting fucked, Dirty Talk, Dress Up, F/M, Fellatio on a Strap-on, Femdom, Lingerie, Makeup, Oral Sex, Pegging, Polyamory, Shaving, Strap-Ons, and some mentioned Deacon/Strong fantasizing, some background Rachel/Tina de Luca, the smut content is primarily Rachel/Deacon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacon dresses up for a hot date with that pretty doctor from Vault 81. Now if she can only get him out the door!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful [placentalmammal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal) and [ialpiriel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel) for beta'ing this! Any flaws or faults are my own. :)

Tina juts her chin at Deacon, her hand heavy on Rachel’s shoulder. Voice pitched low and rumbling, a mock-growl. “You have permission to date my girlfriend, but you better have her home by ten, alright?” Tina says, squeezing Rachel’s shoulder. Tina’s dressed up today— still the standard Vault-issue suit, but done her eyes in smoke and shadow, painted her lips dark. Not to impress Deacon, but to give Rachel something nice to remember before leaving the vault.

“Yes’m,” Deacon says solemnly, delivering a sardonic salute.

Rachel sighs. “This joke gets less funny every time.” Tina opens her mouth, but Rachel cuts her off with, “And it was never funny to begin with.” She softens the blow with a kiss, aiming for Tina’s cheek but Tina twists so it lands on her lips, soft and chaste. Then decidedly less chaste, a slip of tongue and Tina’s fists clenched in the front of Rachel’s suit, fingers curled like trying to climb inside her ribs. Breath passing warm over their lips, inhaling the mingled scents of lemon soap and cinnamon gum, sweet and burning.

(Out of the corner of her eye— Deacon keeps his head carefully averted, ostentatiously eyeing the wall rather than ogling. Good man.)

Rachel finally breaks away with a murmured, “I’ll pick you up a souvenir, okay?”

Tina sighs, crossing her arms with studied nonchalance. “Have fun.”

Rachel waves as the vault door rolls open in a groan of metal pistons, and more words would just get them both ridiculously soppy, so Rachel and Deacon climb the steps up to the Vault entrance.

She lingers just outside the tunnel— always does. Always takes the time to swing her gaze upward, to marvel at the endless expanse of blue spilling upward. A way of fighting her vertigo, struggling to make sense of it as something more than an impossibly high ceiling, or a column of air so massive she could be crushed beneath it.

Deacon, bless him, never teases her for it. Allows her a moment of silence as she gets her bearings, waits until her face is no longer tilted sky-ward before setting off. Their boots shuffle over the broken asphalt, the breeze blowing the smell of organic detritus in her face— brown decay of leaves, bark, distant smoke and the damp smell of cool earth and greenery. Even with her eyes closed, she can tell she’s no longer in the vault. Impossible to forget.

She and Deacon have the usual small talk and catching up. She asks how Curie’s doing, listens to Deacon’s endless string of ‘no-shit-it-really-happened,’ listens to the news from the settlements. Deacon asks about Bobby and Austin, smiles and nods in all the right places, and turns on the radio whenever the conversation flags. It’s never an uneasy silence; feels like picking up an old conversation.

When they reach Diamond City, the gates gleam in the lingering light of early evening, shadows long on the ground. The guards wave their hellos and Deacon replies with a laugh and a smile. Rachel’s content to let him do the speaking as they walk down to the city’s heart, the daily chatter washing over them. So different in so many small ways— no fears of voicing bouncing off the metal corridors, so people don’t worry as much about controlling their volume, trust the air to dissipate sound. She catches a whiff of salt and spice, Takahashi’s savory noodles, and her stomach rumbles even as her feet aim themselves for the Home Plate. Technically belongs to Deacon’s friend from Vault 111, but Rachel’s only been here with Deacon, so she thinks of it as ‘his’ place rather than something borrowed.

Deacon fumbles at the door, key scritching against the lock, then opens it with a dramatic sweep and beckons Rachel in. Rachel sets her belongings in the foyer of the Home Plate, rolls her shoulders and resists the urge to immediately kick her boots off.

“Want first crack at the shower? Small luxuries of living in the green jewel, et cetera, et cetera,” Deacon offers.

Rachel checks the time on her Pip-Boy, tapping the screen. “As long as we can still get food somewhere.”

“The Dugout keeps late hours and Takahashi never closes.” Deacon spreads his arms wide, palms up. “Take your pick.”

“Noodles,” Rachel says immediately. The shower takes priority, something to sluice off the sweat and dirt. Rachel’s not inactive— she takes her usual walks around the Vault both to socialize and to get some exercise into her normally sedentary routine— but walking under actual sun and with dirt ground into her soles has left her feeling unpleasantly fragrant. There are no handy fans or air control vents while traveling. “I’ll hit the shower.”

“Want company?” Deacon asks, waggling his eyebrows. Any higher and they’d look like exclamation marks.

Rachel snorts, swatting his shoulder. “No. It’ll take longer that way. And isn’t water rationed?”

“Longer shower for two people still balances for two short showers,” Deacon laughs. “Besides, the mighty general’s footing the bill. And after all the times I’ve saved her ass out in the field, she owes me at _least_ a couple of obnoxiously long showers.”

“Your stunning barter system aside, I’d still rather shower alone.”

Deacon mimes brushing invisible lint from his shoulder, his smile still radiant. Eyes creased so she can see them even through his ever-present sunglasses. “No worries. Gives me time to grab your present.”

Rachel softens, unlacing her boots and pulling them off. “A present? Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe not, but where’s the fun without a few ‘shouldn’t haves’?”

He leaves her to get undressed and enter the shower. She creaks the dial on, then steps under the spray. It hits her skin in icy needles at first, her teeth chattering, but she immediately starts scrubbing with a fresh bar of soft soap. Takes less work to lather up than the hard bars in the vault, and it’s scented with some unfamiliar herb. Smells green, cool and faintly medicinal.

Rachel’s still making up her mind on whether or not she likes it when the water finally warms up. She thinks thermostatic control valves might be another possible idea for the vault traders— schematics at least, something to add to the list of commodities they’re already putting out for exchange. They’d be luxury items, limited to the settlements established enough to have running water for bathing, but still potentially useful.

The speculation continues as she rinses, but turns off when she shuts the water off the water. She wrings out her wet hair and flicks the water off her body with long sweeps of her hand. She grabs the towel and rubs dry, letting out a soft sigh. Life’s small pleasures; a fresh towel after a brisk shower.

It feels a shame to go back to her travel-clothes, so she walks out of the bathroom with the towel around her, for warmth rather than modesty. Finds Deacon has set his ‘present’ on a chair.

“A strap-on? Really?” she sighs, finger-combing her hair. “You shouldn’t have. Really.”

“Oh come on! It’s just your color, isn’t it? Gorgeous Nuka-red leather, quality silicone—”

And it _is_ nice, a two-strap style red leather harness. There’s even a black dildo already firmly strapped in, snug against the O-ring. Must have cost Deacon a pile of caps, assuming he purchased it instead of scavving it from some long-abandoned shop and pouring time and sweat into caring it back to new.

“It’s a toy for you, not me,” Rachel points out. “You know Tina and I don’t share between partners.”

Deacon wilts. “Well, okay, the _dildo_ is for me, I admit. But come on! Look at the harness! Not even a little excited?”

“I would be more excited if I weren’t hungry,” Rachel grumbles. “Topping’s _work_.”

“Very true, very true, my apologies,” he says, palms up in defeat. “Lemme get ready then. Wanna shave before we go out.”

“Hot date?” Rachel teases, lingering by the chair as Deacon enters the bathroom.

“Yup!” Deacon calls back, voice echoing off the walls. A squeak of the valve, then a hiss of water. She sets the harness against her body, starts cinching the straps in place. If she’s waiting anyway, might as well try it on— but she refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her put it on right away.

Deacon calls out, “There’s this _real_ pretty doctor I met! She’s from the only vault that didn’t go ape-shit!” A dramatic pause, and she can hear the grin in his voice as he drawls, “If I’m real lucky, she might even fuck me in the ass tonight!”

Rachel bites her tongue between her teeth, her laugh escaping as a snort. “You are so easy.”

“Where’s the fun in being difficult?” he asks.

Rachel has no response for that, just lets the dildo sway in front of her. Wishes she had a full-length mirror to look at herself as she takes an experimental swagger, the base of the dildo snug against her clit. The left thigh-strap digs into her skin, flesh plumping around the buckle, so she loosens it a notch. The red really _is_ lovely against her skin, warm and inviting. She might have to thank Deacon after all.

Deacon shuts off the water, and Rachel hears the soft lather of soap over skin, then the scrape of a razor. A soothing sort of rasp as she takes clean clothes from her pack, donning bra and blouse. She doesn’t bother buttoning it all the way to the top, her one concession that this is a date and not just another business trip.

When she pokes her head into the bathroom, Deacon’s seated on the edge of the tub, humming.

“So. I’ll admit, this _is_ nice,” she allows, stepping into the doorway so he can admire the harness against her skin, one hand cupped around the base of the dildo. The black silicone gleams in the bathroom light.

Deacon turns his head, grinning wolfishly. “See? It _is_ a present.”

“You win this one.”

Deacon chuckles, turning back to his legs. Drags the razor over his calf, leaving a newly-bare strip of skin.

Rachel leans against the wall, watching him. His hunched posture emphasizes his small potbelly, his long arms ropy rather than muscular. The bits of stubble on his scalp are salt and pepper, though his eyebrows remain ginger. Still some silver coming there, too. Must be why he wears a wig, when he chooses to have hair at all.

“Penny for your thoughts, doc?” he asks, rinsing the blade under a trickle of water before setting it against his ankle. Another long, smooth glide of the razor over his shin, another long line of fresh skin.

“Why not a cap?”

“Because that’s not how the saying goes,” Deacon says. A soft scrape of lather as he draws the blade up his knee. “C’mon, talk to me. I don’t trust anyone that quiet next to me while I’m holding a razor. Might startle me.” He holds the blade steady, the light catching silver off the hairs on his arm. Flippant as always, but with his shirt off Rachel can see the marks of old scars: faded burns, puckered starburst from an old bullet wound, a fine constellation of keloid that might be from shrapnel.

She doesn’t know all of what he does— he follows the General of the Minutemen, yes, but he’s frustratingly coy about his courier service, prefers making jokes about handling his ‘package’ to talking about his actual packages.

Still, she’ll take Deacon in bits and pieces, the small parts he chooses to share. Small pleasures are the sweetest, and she’ll take them where she can.

“I was thinking you have very nice legs. All that walking,” she says. Only half a lie; he does have very nice legs. Long and lean, with toned calves and magnificent lines of definition. Smooth and glistening as he shaves, inviting to touch. 

Deacon navigates the tricky bit behind the knee before responding. “Why thanks, doc. I could market it as the newest craze. ‘Follow this frozen popsicle around, haul her shit, get great gams!’” He rinses the blade, looks down to examine his legs with pride. “There! Like one of those prewar pinups.”

Rachel holds the towel for him as he rinses off, wraps it around his shoulders as he shivers his way out of the tub. He towels himself off, then takes a small pot from the bathroom cabinet. The letters on the pot have faded beyond recognition, but as he rubs the sweet-smelling lotion over his legs, she catches a whiff of artificial cherry. He massages with his palm, working it into his skin. Casts a subtle shimmer over his legs as he straightens up, pointing his toes, then shifting weight from balls to heel as he flexes.

“You should wear a skirt. Show off those legs,” Rachel says approvingly as she folds the tall and sets it on the rack.

Deacon grins, his grey eyes pale. Oddly vulnerable now that he can’t hide behind his shades. “Even better, I’ve got a dress. And stockings. And heels, even if I haven’t figured out how to walk in ‘em yet.”

“Let me see.”

Deacon crosses his arms, jutting his chin in mock defiance. “Is that an order?”

“That’s a ‘hurry up and get dressed so I can eat!’” Rachel groans, rubbing her belly.

“Fine, fine,” Deacon sighs, relenting. He walks out of the bathroom, naked as a jaybird, whistling as he walks to the armoire and pulls out a delicate set of stockings and panties folded over a wire hanger. He plucks them between thumb and forefinger, offers them to Rachel with an uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Help me put them on?” A ‘please’ in all but words.

Rachel sighs, but kneels. The dildo bobs against her thigh as she takes Deacon’s underwear. He sits in the chair, points his toes and holds his foot out for Rachel’s inspection. She runs one hand up the sweep of his leg, fingers sliding smooth along the inner curve of his calf, then to the soft hairs lining his thighs. “Very nice, Deacon. Good job.”

“I can be so good when I try,” he murmurs, voice catching. Eyes shut to narrow cracks, lashes fluttering. Soft, precious. Looks like a man in need of warm arms and protection.

Shame he ruins it by giving an exaggerated moan as she rolls the stocking between her hand and pulls it over his foot. She unrolls it, going up his legs and past his knee, and he gives a series of soft pants. Rachel flicks her finger against his inner thigh, makes him yelp. “Stop that. We’re getting dressed, not fucking.”

“But if we fuck _now_ , we work up an appetite for dinner!” Deacon protests. Cock half-hard, bobbing at her eye-level. Makes her wish she had a chastity cage. “And besides, _I’m_ not the one wearing a sex toy.”

“This is the last time I do something nice for you,” Rachel grumbles. She taps his other foot, makes him change over as she rolls the other stocking up his leg. Black stockings, so sheer as to be filmy against his skin, a hint of shadow and softness. Skin-warmed silk beneath her hand as she sets her palm over his knee, squeezes. “Do you have garters?”

“Mhm. Ruins the look if the stockings roll down, after all.” He rises to his feet, turns to give a teasing ass-shimmy, but twists aside to avoid her playful slap. He picks up the black elastic belt, cinches it snug over the belly, just below his navel. The dangling garter bands have to be adjusted, and Rachel helps him on the left as he makes his own adjustments on the right. He smells soft, nice— a little of that soft soap from the shower, and a dry flower smell from the clothing. There are so few purely lovely things that survived the years, and anything silk must have dated prewar. She wonders where Deacon found this, whether he has his own contacts among the traders or if he had simply lucked into it while scavving. 

She clasps the stocking in place and Deacon twirls, hands on his hips. “How do I look?”

“Lovely, but you need some panties now.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” Deacon chuckles, picking up a filmy wisp of nothing. Another silky scrap that he steps into, pulls up and over the stockings. It’s snug against his crotch, his cock bulging against the material, and cups firm against his ass. Lace inserts add a hint of texture, more lace peeping at the hem. Only slightly more opaque than the stockings, translucent rather than transparent.

“What a pretty boy,” Rachel murmurs, slipping her hands around Deacon’s waist and pulling him close. Her dildo bumps against his ass and he grinds against her, hands over hers.

“Just you wait until I’m all dressed up,” he says, and she releases him to step into the red dress. It glitters with sequins, and subtle ruching emphasizes the shape of his hips and the curve of his back. He dons his glasses, smiling like an old cinema star, and toes his way into a pair of red heels. He’s ungainly, making each stride with a heavy _clop_ on the concrete floor, but when he stands still the effect’s stunning.

“No make-up?” Rachel asks, already thinking about a tube of mostly-untouched red lipstick in her nightstand at the vault. Another gift, perhaps, for future play. And Tina loves dolling people up, would get a kick out of painting Deacon’s face all pretty.

Deacon shakes his head, grinning and running his tongue over his teeth. “Nah, I always end up eating my lipstick.” He takes one dainty teetering step, hips swaying. “Pretty enough without it, right?” Sashays to the game room, heels going muffled against the rug, head back and flipping an imaginary head of hair. Sets his palms flat on the pool table, leaning forward and arching his back. Sways his butt at her.

Rachel snorts, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Very pretty, but I’m hungry.” She turns back to her clothing, starting to unfasten her strap-on, but Deacon’s suddenly behind her with a muffled click-click-click of heels against the floor, hands on her shoulders and gently spinning her to face him.

“Hey, hey, c’mon. Let me show you just how good I can be,” he murmurs, dropping to his heels in an ungainly squat. Legs spread, the dress hiking up his thighs to expose the tops of his stockings and an enticing strip of bare skin. The dress must have some elastic material in it, to keep from ripping. But Deacon wraps his hand around the base of her cock, hands flush with the harness. Licks a stripe up the shaft, a long line of wet, then wraps his mouth around the tip. Sucks, cheek hollow. Peeking up at her over the rims of his shades, his eyes shining. Showmanship, a hopeful crinkle as he works his mouth down, lips slick.

Rachel’s clit throbs, but her stomach rumbles. Two conflicting appetites. “Dammit, Deacon, I’m hungry.”

“Just a quickie?” he pleads. Clears his throat, voice dropping to a throaty murmur and breath hot against her thigh. “Fast and rough, wham, bam, then out for noodles.”

Rachel groans, but rests her hand on top of his head. Traces the planes of his skull with her thumb, the stubble catching beneath her nails. “Last time we did it ‘fast and rough,’ you were whining about how sore you were.” 

“Worth it. Please?”

And she’s a sucker for those lovely eyes peeking over the dark shades, for the sharp contrast of his sun-browned hand against the black silicone, for the rough change of textures between the silk stockings and the sequined dress bunched around his legs. “Okay, okay. But you owe me, after dinner.”

“Cunnilingus and a foot rub. Got it.” He kisses her leg, a dry press of lips, and sucks on the strap-on again. Bobbing, the glasses sliding down his nose and his mouth mashed down against the harness as he sucks deep.

Makes it easier to pretend the cock’s an extension of her clit, the base of the dildo rubbing against her. Broad pressure, indirect, not the sort of teasing finesse she usually enjoys, but it’s worth it for the way Deacon moans. Makes her cunt throb, makes her slick. Makes her heart race, belly flutter, makes her hands itch for something to twine in.

He has no hair, so she digs her fingers against the back of his head and growls. “Fast and rough? Fine. Go down on me, really go down. Show me how much you want my cock up your ass.”

And it’s such a shame her toy’s not real, the way Deacon pushes himself to gagging, works up a thick coat of spit and slick and rubs it over his palm, starts jerking her off with it as impromptu lube. His lips plump, swollen as he sucks down, down. Like he’s trying to breathe her in, swallow it whole, like he wants nothing better in the world than for her to fuck his throat raw. He pushes forward, near-knocks himself off balance and catches himself against her as she braces one foot behind her.

“Get up,” she orders. “Bend over the pool table, pull up your dress. And take off your glasses.”

She half-expects some mouthy comment, but Deacon’s too far gone for sass. Instead he straightens up, his face flushed, pink and blotchy— she thinks blush, puffs of pink powder, thinks how lovely he’d look with his eyes uncovered, lined with silver and shadow. Long curls of mascara, something to draw attention to his eyes. He spends so much time hiding them, she’d love to see them played up and glittering.

Deacon teeter-walks his way to the pool table, heels thudding, and twists his hands against the hem of his dress. Pulls up in one brisk yank. Leans forward, his elbows flat against the baize material, legs spread. Toes angled inward, presenting his ass for inspection. Pulls off his glasses, lets them dangle off his thumb before setting them aside. A small pause. Then he nudges them, a small poke of his finger. Still facing away from her, but unshuttered.

Rachel squeezes his ass, savors the heat of him through the silk. Scratches the back of her nail down the curve where ass meets thigh, a back-handed stroke that has him shivering. Then hooks her finger in the back of his panties, pulling them down just enough to expose the swell of his buttocks.

“I might rip this if we really get going,” she says, conversational. “Would you like to take these off?”

He whines incoherently in the back of his throat.

She waits. “Yes? No?”

“Yes,” he finally mumbles, drawing his legs together. She pulls the panties down past his ankles, lets him step his right leg out, the panties still dangling off his left ankle.

“And where’s the lube?”

Not even a breath of hesitation. “Pack. Top pouch. Under the flap.”

“Don’t move,” Rachel orders, padding her way to the discarded pack. Doesn’t bother looking back to check for his obedience. Deacon’s rebellions are always all lip, no action.

Because Deacon always talks— too much, too loud, sometimes about the wrong things— and this is no exception. A breathy whimper as she slicks a lube-coated finger down the crack of his ass, teasing against the rim. He squirms onto his toes, heels lifting out of his shoes. Tries to sink onto her finger but she says, cool and firm, “Stop it. I’ll get there when I’m ready.”

“Aw, please don’t do the cold doctor routine on me _now_. Wanna get _fucked_ , not just a rectal exam—”

“You want it rough, you play by my rules, Deacon. You’re already delaying my dinner.” Finger flat against his ass, firm pressure against his taint. Close enough to tease, to feel the way his scrotum tightens, balls lifting, but not the penetration he craves.

“Yes’m,” he moans through clenched teeth.

She waits a few breaths, long enough to make sure Deacon’s holding still, then brings her finger back to the rim. A surprising lack of resistance as she presses in, her index finger sliding almost to the knuckle. She chuckles, leans into him with her other hand on the back of his neck. Catches a cut-flower scent behind his ear, a hint of that unfamiliar soap. “You were fingering yourself in the shower, weren’t you.” A statement rather than a question, hand rocking in shallow thrusts.

“Guilty as charged,” he gasps, hands clenching futilely against the pool table, nails scratching into the worn felt.

She curls another finger in with the first, pries them apart— afraid she’s too rough at first, the way Deacon clenches, but he groans “more, more” so she slides in a third finger, fucks him with the three fingers bundled together. His back trembles, a shivering line of tension between his shoulders as she presses down. Almost pinning him, but not quite— Deacon can’t be held anywhere he doesn’t want to be, can’t be forced more than he willingly gives.

She twists her hand, a smooth glide of knuckles, thumb tickling the fine hairs coating his scrotum. Curls again, searching for the prostate. Gentle pressure, firm.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t milk me, fuck me,” he groans. “Pound me like a bent nail.”

Rachel chuckles, dragging her nails along his neck. Leaves white trails of scraped skin. “Rude.”

“Okay, okay. Please?” He whimpers again as she digs her nails into his back, crescents biting flesh. “Pretty please?”

“You want me to fuck you over the pool table?” At his frantic nod, she says, “Then take off the heels. You’re too tall.”

He kicks them off, a soft clatter as they knock against the floor. Takes his cock in hand, grunts as she pulls her fingers out. 

She coats her dildo in lube, enough to drip down her hand, and she wipes the excess off his thigh. Sets her toy against his ass and slides in— at first afraid it’s too fast, too hard, but he moans as she pushes forward, the lube trickling down the back of his legs, smearing between them. The garters crimp his thighs as he slams back against her, hard enough she fists her hand into his dress, yanks to keep herself standing. “Careful, Deacon.”

“God, slam me like a mutant,” he begs, voice high and tight. His hand slaps against his groin, a frantic jerking rhythm. “C’mon, please, please, please.” She knows that voice, knows his expression— tight-pressed brow, wrinkles on his forehead, eyes, the edges of his mouth. Old, bleeding pains. He likes it rough, but it’s _sensation_ , not pain, something to keep him rooted in the moment. Something to ground him in this reconstructed, patchwork body.

(And that’s another secret he holds, unless it isn’t— she knows enough to suspect when she finds odd lines of scars behind his ears, in the seams of his arms. He’s had good work, but he’s had work. But she’s never asked, knows he’ll tell her when he’s ready. If he’s ready. He’s her lover, not a patient, after all.)

The lip of the table digs into his hips as she grinds forward, rocks into him. Clit throbbing hard, wet, her own arousal slicking down her thighs. Musk and leather rich in the air. She pitches her voice low, soothing. Dirty talk is not as important as letting him know she’s there. “Mutant, hm? New fantasy?”

“There’s this mutant the General picked up— name’s Strong.” His voice catches, rough with want. “Accidentally walked in on him jacking off, dick in his hands and just—” He grasps the air, groping, miming massive shapes with one hand. “Fuck, why does he have such a great dick? How does a guy with a face like a brick have such a great dick?” he groans, equal parts plea and accusation at the sheer _indignity_ of it all. “Big, like— like—” 

“Like something you want up your ass?”

“Hell yeah! I was going ‘wow, looks like a big job, need a hand?’ and he just yells ‘STRONG ALREADY HAVE TWO HANDS, GO AWAY!’” Deacon slaps his fist against the table, a whimper clenched in his teeth. “Fuck’s sake, I just wanted a lay!”

Rachel picks up the pace, grinding her hips against his ass as she slaps forward, back. Breath hot on her lips, a laugh ghosting up her throat. “Poor Deacon. Poor, poor Deacon. Only got this little toy to plow his ass.” She can’t see his hand, can only feel him trembling against her, the rapid tremors up his shoulder. Must be mashing his dick, pawing at himself. “Poor pretty Deacon, such a sad boy.”

“Oh c’mon, please, call me your pretty girl. Pretty, pretty girl,” he croons, a wriggle in his ass as he slides back, forward. Trying to match her rhythm, meet her in a slam of warmth and bodies. Sweat sticking down his back, gleaming lines of perspiration damping into the dress. Shiver-cool beneath the whirring overhead fan.

“Pretty girl should keep touching herself,” Rachel orders, voice cool and husky. God, but Tina would love to doll him up in heels and makeup. Something to try, next time Deacon stops by the vault. “I want my pretty girl to be a filthy, cummy mess.” Squeezes the back of his neck, thumb high in the meat of the muscle. “And keep it down. Don’t want to wake the neighbors.” She thinks about offering to gag him with his panties, but Deacon lifts his hand from the table, bites down on his wrist. A garbled cry as he sways, rocks, shivering as she lifts her foot, hooks it around his leg and anchors herself, pounding into him.

Deacon makes such a pretty girl when he wants to, deserves a treat— so she fucks his ass as hard as she can, near-bouncing off in the ricochet of hips and skin. The dildo gone from a mere toy to an extension of herself, like a cock rooted in her clit, and she dances on the edge, tilts, starts to tip…

Deacon gives a heaving shudder, falling forward on his elbow as he pumps into his hand. She pulls back, watches his hips pulse weakly as he climaxes. He straightens up, a bedraggled wreck in a red dress hitched up to his waist and his stockings slick with lube, filmy scraps of silk now sopping. His cum glistens soft and milky on his hand.

Rachel plucks his panties from the floor, holds them out. “Wipe yourself off.”

“Gonna ruin the silk,” Deacon groans.

“Swirl it in cold water later. You’re going to have to wash your stockings anyway,” she points out. “Besides, knowing you’re wearing soaked panties might— _might—_ help make up for the fact you delayed my dinner,” Rachel chuckles, tapping her toes against the rug.

Deacon groans again, more theatrics than penance, and wipes his hand with the panties. Sops it across his palm and between his fingers, then steps into the panties with shaking legs. The garter belt and stockings still mostly in place, though Rachel smooths the garter belt from its skewed angle.

“Dinner, then you’re on toy-cleaning duty,” Rachel says, unstrapping her harness. Probes the dips and marks left behind, the crimp of leather on skin. “And you still owe me a footrub and oral.”

“Yes’m,” Deacon sighs, giving a lopsided grin as he recovers his shades. All mirrored darkness in his eyes, her own reflection mock-glaring at her. “I definitely owe you.”


End file.
